


Are you lost in paradise, or have you found a home? [DISCONTINUED]

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Sex, Javert Lives, M/M, Mutual Pining, Outdoor Sex, Post-Seine, author is Extremely unreliable with updating, graphic depictions of gardening, gross misuse of adverbs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-01-25 05:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12523656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Nothing is truly small, as anyone knows who has peered into the secrets of Nature. Everything works upon everything else, wasting not and creating all from nothing. Truly, it is a miracle to cultivate the awes of God's good earth. Truly, it is the greatest blessing in one's duties to Him.





	1. If you must fight,

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slytherintbh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherintbh/gifts).



> _Hey I’ve fallen out of Les Mis so this story is not gonna have an end unless I miraculously get obsessed again, but yogscast has basically consumed my soul, so that’s not likely. Sorry my dudes! ___
> 
> __As soon as I read "Of leaves and branches", I knew I had to make a valvert adaptation because what else is a mother earth femme to do? I just... really love nature my dudes. A lot. So I'm taking it out on our boys. That's a weird way of putting it. I Wanted To See Them Make Love In A Beautiful Garden. There we go, that's better._ _
> 
> __A few other notes, I'm s t i l l not done with the brick. I'm just... really not looking forward to cha'boy dying, so I'm drawing it out as long as I can stand, so sorry for the horrible inconsistencies with canon. Also, my Javert is based on hatarlakrits Romani Javert (check out their tumblr my dudes) because he's Fucking Perfect, but feel free to imagine whatever Javert you want~_ _
> 
> __(Title change: now lyrics from Indigo Home by Roo Panes because why tf not, let's make Everything lyrics)_ _

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fight with yourself and your thoughts in the night.  
> If you must work, work to leave some part of you on this earth.  
> If you must live, darling one...
> 
> Just live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics in title/summary from You by Keaton Henson

The garden truly lives in summer, its dormant blossoms, ripened by spring, bursting forth in flourishing pastels against the virescent easel of sweet grasses and the boughs of the reverent white willows. Wisteria and trumpet vine clamber tendril and tendril after one another - a pantomime of grapes and celebration that engulfs the decrepit trellis work peeling off the wall, and gatherings of royal iris about the gate stain their proud beards with the indigo drippings that once embellished the Renaissance in blue and green. Small thickets, previously masquerading as mere leaves in May, swell now with raspberries so heavy they drip to their roots. Together with the patchworks of wild strawberries and wandering jew, they turn the ground to a quilt of sweet scarlet and mauve, and any visiting fauna quickly grows fat and content on the garden’s plump patterns.

 

Left alone for decades, untamed by any hoe or shovel, this veritable forest has thrived and earned its wild reputation in Rue Plumet. Even the tenants of the conjoined villa have made no headway into its mire of vine and flower, not that there was ever reason or desire to at all.

 

However, as Jean Valjean wrests open the gate, it is very much his wish that the garden at least had a proper path tamed through it. Were he alone in company, it would present no issue, but maneuvering not only himself but as well the limp, sodden body of Javert cradled awkwardly to his chest through a dozen feet of brambles and errant branches is not an easy task. Nor does it feel appropriate. In his arms, a man is possibly dying, but around him, the air seeks to embolden with the richest perfumes and low, dizzying din of insects and far off thunder. Summer in this little haven intoxicates and inspires and adores its visitors. The same could not be less true of the river Valjean has just returned from, and something small but cancerous within him nags and scratches and whispers dangerous desires - _he should not have taken this evening’s stroll along the Seine, should not have looked at its waters, should not have noticed the body, should not have dragged it ashore._

 

He dispels the thoughts and shoulders through the foliage, at last emerging at the garden’s perimeter. The villa is not yet his destination, and he cuts a path around the main house, across the courtyard, and arrives haltingly at the small backyard cottage. In much an obscure likeness of a bridegroom, Valjean passes quickly through its threshold and hastens for the nearest room, his wearying arms delivering Javert’s cold body to the bed where Valjean immediately sets to divesting the inspector of his damp clothing. It is a mindless, urgent process, and within moments Valjean has situated his enemy beneath thick woolen blankets, propped his head on double pillows, and quit the room before the smothering atmosphere can suffocate him.

 

Wandering ghost-like to the unused fireplace, his frayed nerves finally snap, and he collapses in the single chair heretofore used only for lofty contemplations or reading. Now it struggles to support a man burdened by the world entire, by loss and grief and fear, and, as he succumbs to the maelstrom in his aching head, he feels he might just sink through the floor and be buried alive. Not that he feels alive really at all. Javert is not the only one seduced by the promised quietude of death, and although Valjean has devoted little energy to directly considering the possibility - his is a more subtle suicide, evidenced only by every bite of bread he forgoes - it is considered nonetheless, no matter who does and does not notice.

 

But now he cannot hope to act on it fully, not with his enemy again so close at hand and in need of care Valjean knows only he can provide, care far beyond that of physical. It is easy enough to set a broken bone. Nearly impossible is tending to and mending a ruptured spirit. Of all the men on God’s good earth, Valjean knows this perhaps most intimately.

 

And it is this that especially rankles, his own soul a leaden weight at his temples and wrists. Now he cannot even lift his hands in prayer or kneel to reverence and beseech God for an answer, an _explanation_. He is depleted in all but mind, and this runs amok, the past few hours careening about in one great muddle, and still he sees it all clearly were he reliving it a second time over.

 

Even when he’d recognized the man spat out by the Seine, there was no hesitancy in ordering a fiacre to the hospital, but halfway there, he was burdened with an immense guilt. That he could consider leaving even his enemy so vulnerable at the hands of strangers struck him crueler an act than if he had relinquished Javert back to the Seine’s currents. As such, he requested a new address, paid the driver triple for the promise of his discretion, and stumbled from the carriage with Javert in his arms.

 

And now they are here. Valjean knows he should send for a doctor or even just Toussaint, but it seems impossible to do anything beyond muse despairingly and without result. What in God’s name is to come of him now? Of Javert?

 

He’s left the door open, and a wash of cool air floats into the cottage as a heavy crackle of thunder rolls down from the heavens. Following suit of the building storm, a gentle rush of rain hushes the oppressive silence huddled about Valjean’s exhausted body, and it’s no time at all before the sounds soothes him into a dreamless trance. It isn’t quite sleep - he won’t sleep properly for many months to come - but for while, he forgets his woes and can believe himself a man unhampered by his transgressions.

 

~

 

For days it rains - a steady deluge from the lightning embroidered clouds - and every evening, Valjean steals away from the apartment in the Rue de l’Homme Armé , not to return until the early morning hours. In this manner, he keeps his nightly stays in Rue Plumet a secret from Cosette, though he suspects she would not notice his absence either way. Wholly absorbed in worrying over Marius, all Valjean sees of her are a sparse few moments when he chaperones her visits to the boy, and he’s torn between a vague sense of relief that he may visit Javert in timely fashion, and despair that he is soon to be replaced by the saccharine naivety of matrimony.

 

Small comfort comes in that Toussaint’s ever faithful diligence has already nursed Javert to a semblance of health, but his recovery is far from complete. Valjean had first called on a private doctor who informed him Javert’s injuries - two fractured ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a slight concussion - were minor and would heal in due time. He kept vague the details of what caused these ailments, and the doctor did not pry. Toussaint, however, was not so easily dissuaded, and Valjean chose carefully between bits of truth and fabrication to satisfy her curiosities. In the end, they were not insistent, and she believed Valjean’s story that the two had met in their duties in the Garde Nationale.

 

Valjean has no doubt she would care little if he admitted his entire past to her; her loyalty is unshakable, and he is beyond grateful. As such, she stays with Javert in the cottage during the day, and retires to the villa at night, her absence at Rue de l’Homme Armé under guise of a visit to distant relations. Valjean promises that her services will not be required at much length, and she replies it is of no consequence to her if she must stay a year - anything for monsieur.

 

She says the same tonight, but punctuates her sentiments with a concerned hum.

 

“Is something the matter?” Valjean asks, setting aside his coat and hat before standing to attention at the side of the bed.

 

“J-just that he s-seems to be coming dow-own with a fever, monsieur,” she says, replacing the cloth on Javert’s forehead with the back of her hand. “Nothing too serious b-but -”

 

“This blasted rain,” Valjean interrupts, and Toussaint nods.

 

He frowns and asks, “Do you suppose I should call the doctor again?”

 

“If it worsens t-tonight, perhaps,” she says, drawing her hand away as Javert’s expression twists, his sleep fitful.

 

“He w-was awake earlier, but b-barely coherent, monsieur, j-just long enough to have so-ome broth and bread.”

 

“A minor blessing,” Valjean sighs. “But, please, you must be tired.”

 

Nodding again, Toussaint allows Valjean to usher her from the room and accompany her to the villa with his parapluie. There, he stokes the fire, and she sets about making tea for herself.

 

“Will you n-need me to bring you anything?” She asks this of polite habit, both of them knowing he always refuses.

 

“Thank you, but I should like to return to him,” Valjean says but pauses when Toussaint fixes him with a stare.

 

“Y-you tend your own fire tonight. It’s g-going to get colder, I ca-an feel it.”

 

It _is_ uncharacteristically chilly for June, and Valjean replies, “Of course, Toussaint. I have no intention of freezing.”

 

He says this in a way that earns a small laugh from Toussaint, and he smiles, too. It is a fleeting lapse of his visage - gone like it hadn’t existed at all, and he inclines his head stiffly in a gesture to suggest he is spent of idle chatter. In fact, he is just eager to return to Javert. The thought of leaving the inspector alone for even a moment does not sit well.

 

“Goodnight, then.”

 

“Goodnight, monsieur.”

 

As he dashes again from villa to cottage, he notes that the trumpet vine from the front garden has started to snake its way around back and resolves to cut it back when the weather clears. A cursory glance at the sky tells him it won’t be anytime soon -the turbulent clouds more purple than grey in the growing twilight - but quite unlike the color of an angry bruise, they are not a malevolent hue. There is something beautiful about them, even, and, stopping a moment at the door to the cottage, Valjean watches the sky tumble about, follows the fat, silver droplets it releases onto the world below, watches them pummel the orange flowers of the trumpet vine that marches to its own flourish across the courtyard. And for a spell, Valjean does not know anything besides the rain and the clouds and the humble but determined flora, can suspend his woes somewhere unreachable, unthinkable.

 

For a short time, there is bliss, and then a volley of coughs, weak but determined in their own right, shatters the facade, and his body abruptly tenses, shoulders squaring, jaw tightening, hands clenching into fists. Hurrying inside, Valjean finds Javert trapped as ever in his restless sleep, but a small spray of blood on his lower lip betrays the coughing fit, and he cleans the mess away before sinking into the nearby chair. Usually, he spends the evenings talking or reading to Javert, not exactly sure if the man hears him, but certain all the same it is better than waiting in silence for something he cannot hope to anticipate.

 

Tonight, however, he has few words, and he rests his chin in his palms, gaze glued to Javert, both hoping and dreading any change in his severe features. For even in rest, the man is an intimidating a specimen, his wide mouth frozen in a deep frown, thick eyebrows and whiskers a shock of shadow against his dark skin. The only disorderliness is his hair - undone of its usual ribbon and fanned out against the pillows, glossy like the jet Madeleine’s factories once produced, but far more real in this. And soft, too. Valjean knows because he often tends to it, combing out snarls and keeping the fringe brushed back from the perspiration gathering on Javert’s brow. There is a faint sheen of it now, and Valjean retrieves the cloth Toussaint had been tending to him with, soaks it in the bowl of water on the nearby table, and, after wringing most of the moisture, dabs at Javert’s flushed face. Indeed Toussaint’s fears of fever are not unfounded, and Valjean makes a mental note to request the doctor tomorrow.

 

For now, he must do his best to keep Javert comfortable. He almost opens the room’s single window to let in the cool night and smell of rain but thinks better of it and instead tends the fire in the main room to a roaring blaze. Soon, the heat engulfs the entire cottage so that what others might call cozy, Valjean finds is stifling, and he strips to his shirtsleeves. This alleviates little discomfort, and he resigns himself to the fact it is going to be a particularly awful night, but he suffers it willingly enough.

 

All that too warm evening, Javert rouses but once, and Valjean helps him through a few swallows of water before the man drifts away again, leaving Valjean with his enemy in his arms, and an ever growing confusion festering in his soul. And all the while the rain falls, scouring and scrubbing and cleaning the world so that, when it finally ceases, the summer will effloresce as it never before has.


	2. So can we pretend,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sweetly before the mystery ends?  
> I am a man with a heart that offends with its lonely and greedy demands...
> 
> There's only a shadow of me, in a manner of speaking I'm dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics in title/summary from John My Beloved by Sufjan Stevens.

After a week of equally persistent storming and sickness, the rain and Javert’s fever subside together, and Valjean cannot help but accuse ascendant intervention. Perhaps it is because the chore of trying to parse his own gratitude is too great, but then the sheer poeticness is frankly absurd.

 

First, the sky groans its last as sun splinters through the thunderheads, and then when the remaining grey dissolves under these brilliant ministrations, Javert somehow finds strength enough to prop himself on his elbows and, in a voice ragged from disuse, demand to know where the hell he is.

 

It catches poor Toussaint - allowing herself a small respite out in the courtyard - entirely unprepared, and she jumps as soon as she hears Javert calling for his ‘captors’, bustling into the cottage where abuse rains down upon her. Frozen under his fiery accusations, Toussaint hurries to action only when Javert makes to swing his legs over the bed and stand.

 

“Monsieur, please you m-must lie down!”

 

She rushes forward but is too late, and Javert falls back against the pillows, gasping. His ribs have not come close to healing, and the way he groans makes Toussaint fear the worst.

 

“I sh-shall fetch M. Fauchelevent,” she says, hoping this will instill some kind of reassurance. “But please, do not try to move. You are s-still recovering from g-grave injury.”

 

“What in God’s name are you talking about?” Javert says with too much force and winces as a result. “Who? Where am I?”

 

Toussaint wrings her hands, afraid that maybe he has suffered memory issues from the concussion, and says meekly, “You are in the Rue Plumet, M. Fauchelevent’s residence. He h-helped you from the barricade at the Cor-orinth. He thought it unw-wise to take you to a hospital and b-brought you here.”

 

Toussaint’s nerves agitate her stutter, and it takes her a solid minute to tell Javert everything. Much to her dismay, he grows paler with every word.

 

“Please, if you would just w-wait, I shall send f-for him immediately.”

 

She takes his silence for concession and scurries off to write a message and find a gamin. By the time she returns, Javert has sat back against the pillows and regained a less vehement tone.

 

“You say I am under hospice of an acquaintance of mine.” His words are emotionless, cold to the syllable, and Toussaint finds she cannot look at him directly.

 

“Yes, for a w-week now.”

 

“A  _week_ ,” he says, his teeth tight behind a growing snarl, and Toussaint shrinks under the scrutiny he fixes upon her. “I have been here for a week?”

 

“You ha-ave been unwell.”

 

His lips curl in a sneer, “And no one thought the hospital more suitable?”

 

“The docto-or said it would be too much strain to m-move you,” Toussaint explains as calmly as she can. “And your w-wounds are minor, you have done well under our care.”

 

“A week, madame, is hardly a quick _recovery_ ,” Javert hisses this last word, and though Toussaint finches, she finds she rather doesn’t care for his attitude, friend of her master’s or not.

 

“I am sorry, monsieur,” she says with uncharacteristic conviction. “But you owe much to your friend, and any grievances you will have to take up with h-him.”

 

Javert does not reply, nor does his expression reveal any emotion beyond calculated impatience, and Toussaint looks down at her feet.

 

“Pray, when will - _he_ arrive?” Javert asks.

 

“Within the half hour, I’m sure,” Toussaint answers. “Providing my message ari-rives quickly. I paid th-the gamin extra.

 

Daring to look up, she adds reverently, “M. Fauchelevent insists I do anyway, bless him.”

 

At this, Javert’s face pinches tight with something akin to suspicion. It is such a terrible face - lined from the wear of spying, carved with years of cruelty and survival but nowhere around the mouth to suggest the remnants of smiles.

 

“Yes,” he says with that _terribly_ stiff mouth, “blessed, indeed.”

 

There is nothing reverential in the way he repeats Toussaint’s sentiments, and, blanching, she lets the room fall silent save for the last _pips_ of rain from outside.

 

“Oh,” she seizes upon small talk, “I’m sure y-you would like some fresh a-air,” and sets about opening the window.

 

The latch is tricky, but her old hands manage, and she says, satisfied, “Th-there, much better.”

 

Which it is, and the breeze waltzing past the curtains stirs to life in frenzied whorls the weeks old dust motes huddled on every available surface. Toussaint tuts and waves her apron to clear the air, allowing an amused smile for the inspector when the task is complete, but he is no longer looking at her. His inscrutable gaze is fixed at the foot of the bed, and Toussaint returns to awkward attention.

 

“Is there anything I can get you, monsieur.”

 

“There is nothing you could offer me,” he answers, and then, before Toussaint can insist, “Go and wait for your master. I wish to be alone.”

 

The dismissal does not allow Toussaint’s nerves similar reprieve, but she obeys and shuffles from the room. She debates staying here in the cottage until M. Fauchelevent arrives but decides against it when she glances outside and catches the tail of a rainbow overhead. Convincing herself it is best to wait in the villa, she gathers her skirts and hurries into the courtyard, careful not to trample the proliferating vines and grasses at her feet as she gazes rapturously up at the pastel sky. Hopefully M. Fauchelevent can see it, too, for there is nothing more beautiful, she believes, than a rainbow after its storm.

 

-

 

Javert wastes no time in calculating an escape. The moment that doddering housekeeper departs, he begins wracking his mind and surroundings for a solution. His options are limited, he knows. The bandages around his chest, ache in his shoulder, and throbbing deep in his head as well as what was divulged of his condition tell him everything he needs to know about his physical state - that it is one not suited for daring plans of leave taking, or, if it must so escalate, confrontation. Still the adrenaline beats beneath his sore ribs, and no other thought forms besides, “ _I must get out. I cannot see him. Damn this all. Damn this all!_ ”

 

Gradually, when nothing comes of this panic, he wonders how he ended up in Valjean’s clutches. The housekeeper claimed he was rescued at the barricade - a bold lie - but his recollection falters on an image of roiling impact and a taste of water like rotten metal between his teeth. The memories continue with a weighty dissatisfaction, and immediately proceeding what should have been the cessation of his swelling agonies are instead snippets of voices, fingers at his breast, sweat and chills. He remembers falling and fever but nothing between, and he refuses to entertain conjecture though all clues suggest but one answer to the myriad questions battering his temples.

 

Kneading them with his thumbs, he groans and sinks further into the pillows at his nape. They are ruefully comforting, and he forces himself again prostrate. His ribs complain with the hasty movements, and he sucks in a sharp breath and clings to the pain - the only thing cutting through the muddle and grounding him in the present. Yet then he is all too aware all over again that he is not at the bottom of the Seine but in a sickeningly quaint room under soft blankets with late afternoon sweetness lilting beyond the window.

 

The housekeeper, he sees, has succumbed to the frivolities of clement weather, and, though he knows her a victim of the vile circumstances Valjean inflicts on all who encounter him, Javert cannot help loathe her, too. She has been complacent in this entire affair, hasn’t thought to contact anyone - even the Prefecture for God’s sakes. Not that much would have resulted; his resignation letter, he’s certain, has sufficed to leave smoldering and ashen those bridges.

 

And so he’d sought one as stone as his soul had been, one whose foundation was sure enough to hold his crumbling own as he pitched himself to fate and sought finality.

 

And then this…

 

And then _this_.

 

He’d been so close, and that wretched thief took even death from him with such selfishness that, no doubt, he expects Javert’s gratitude for it all - expects him to kiss the convict’s hands, bend on his knees in abjection, thank him for robbing from Javert the last dregs of his dignity. There is nothing dignified of suicide, he knows, but better to sever one’s life than allow a scoundrel to claim and force it back into your breast under guise of charity.

 

For a damn week, he has been at the mercy of just that. Now he must face Valjean sans the blessed obscurity of unconsciousness, and there is nothing his weary, addled mind can construct to convey to Valjean just how _violated_ he feels. For how to tell the very spectre that has equal parts haunted and eluded him for decades he wants nothing more than to wash his hands of the whole affair? And not just his hands, but his body entire - that to him, the Seine was paramount to any endeavor Javert had previously undertaken, a baptism that would finally condemn him as he deserved.

 

How to impart just how completely Javert abhors him?

 

No doubt, Valjean already knows, but there is comfort to be found for Javert in formally imparting his vitriol. To sneer in that benevolent face, to tower - if only momentarily - above that man colossal as Sinai, who forces all at his feet to cower like peons yet unworthy of God’s good word unless he bestows it…

 

Damn him. _Damn him damn him damn him._

 

All else devolving uselessly into this iteration, Javert comes undone of his thoughts to find himself weeping, a silent, steady catharsis providing naught for relief and singeing the shadows beneath his eyes. There is no sorrow in it, no disruption of his succinct inexpression - his mouth still a terse line, jaw forever caulked at the hinge of his throat. Inclining his face against the heels of his hand, he lets the tears wet his lifelines, and his ribs groan from the effort it takes to prevent his back from quivering. Never has he succumbed to the extravagance of ‘heaving sobs’, nor will he now. He will not give Valjean that satisfaction. If the man insists on keeping him prisoner, on tending his health with the shrewdness of a saint and the passions of Lucifer, so be it, but Javert will not gratify him in any other regard. And when Valjean releases him from his shackles, he will set about extinguishing his breath again. At least in this matter, he is decided. How unfortunate, though, he has neither rope nor eave available, but it will be no trouble to acquire demise once he has endured Valjean’s torments. In a twisting of his better sense, he becomes almost grateful for those inevitable sufferings, if only because they will strengthen his resolve, his pursuit of conclusion no matter how unceremonious or base.

 

Feeling somewhat vindicated, Javert uncovers his damp eyes and sets about drying them. Valjean will not see him in this state, will not know his burdens in any capacity. No, that thief shall understand nothing of Javert until it is absolutely necessary. Until it is too late for either of them.

 

An image solidifies from the torrential whirl of Javert’s musings, and he coaxes it to fruition. Even as he hears distantly the hurrying of feet against stone (no doubt the housekeeper rushing to her master’s presence) succeeded by cluttered voices fast encroaching, he refuses to suspend the supreme calm cast over him by a vision all too enticing.

 

Abruptly, the door to the room opens wide, and a shadow looms in its place. For several seconds, it wavers there, just beyond Javert’s concentration, and then a great sigh exhales, and Javert deigns to unfocus. His fantasies, however, do not wholly dispel, and his gaze upon the face of Valjean - a face sinister in its concern for Javert knows what _truly_ lurks beneath the facade - is clouded by another sight. It is that of his, Javert’s, greatcoat brushing at his ankles, his feet twitching once, twice, and then no more.

 

And something _sharps_ in the pit of his stomach, twists and dives to the ends of his limbs, skitters up his neck and prods the base of his skull. Gooseflesh ripples across his skin, and he must quell… a wince? A smile? He cannot decide which, but the left corner of his mouth quirks, and he is suddenly emboldened. The fool dithering before him cannot parse such strangeness, and there is immense pride to be found in that, at least.

 

At the very least, Javert has that.

 

-

 

His first words are not - as he had intended - to Javert. Instead Valjean turns to Toussaint and quietly asks her to prepare the both of them some tea.

 

“Of c-course, monsieur,” she replies, brushing Valjean's elbow with her arthritic fingers as she departs, instilling in him a reassuring calmness despite the oppressive silence cloistered about the sunny, dusty air of the small room.

 

Really, it is too small, and he half regrets not lodging Javert in the villa, but little can he amend now. And so much more has he yet to.

 

He makes no move toward or away from Javert. Though he feels a great fool stood in the doorway like this, the only chair readily available is stationed beside the bed, and Valjean very much would rather keep his distance until he has assessed Javert’s ire. From his silence, alone, radiates a profound rage, a collected fury poised to unburden itself upon the next unfortunate person to approach, and Valjean would prefer the inevitable be as little vitriolic as possible. No doubt, Javert’s passions will be heard down the whole of Rue Plumet if he is provoked to it. Even a sore rib cage cannot stymie that.

 

So Valjean elects to stay where he is, a safe, respectful distance. There will be much of that, he supposes, in the coming days, that is if Javert does not drag Valjean to prison the moment he is able. His pallor at Valjean’s mere presence suggests this as an unlikely consequence, but Valjean knows he will not deny the man his justice when the time comes. He only hopes there is an interim before then. But will he use it to dissuade Javert? To convince him? Valjean hasn’t the slightest.

 

Cautiously, he unfocuses his eyes from the window where he had been watching Toussaint scurrying across the courtyard and dares to meet Javert’s. It is not so easy, for the man has fixated his own on some vague point on the door frame, though still Valjean feels intensely observed. Such are Javert’s brutal inspector’s instincts that even bedridden they cannot dull. Or is it that his person is simply implicit within? Has Valjean ever distinguished the two? That first night, when he carried Javert through the garden and laid him on this bed as carefully as he might hold Cosette, there had been such a humanness to Javert, such vulnerability. In those seconds, pure with panic for the life of another, Valjean had not once recognized Javert as the ruthless inspector. Instead, he had seen him for who he truly was. Just a man. Just a person. Perhaps he always was. Perhaps he still is.

 

 _God above,_ Valjean wonders desperately, _what is to be made of this_?

 

God has not an answer for him, or at least one so explicit that it might elucidate a remedy for this most impossible of situations. Valjean has faith, though, and if not in himself, then always in the Almighty, and he dares to extricate himself from the safety of the door.

 

Javert immediately tenses, prostrating himself to full, rigid attention and watching Valjean’s every movement with wary calculation. Feeling the tension as though a brick wall has taken residence in front of him, Valjean ventures no closer than the foot of the bed. There, he once again averts his gaze to instead focus on the way his hands wring the life from themselves.

 

It is Javert who finally severs the silence.

 

“Where am I.”

 

Lifting his head, Valjean finds himself arrested by Javert’s expression, the whole of his face seized in a schooled fury evidenced only by his flared nostrils. All else is terrifyingly composed; even his hair, only ever combed (and quite inadequately so) when Valjean bathes him, seems slicked by the sunlight. It frames a commanding visage, one Valjean cannot hope to lie to, and all the better for he possesses no such inclination.

 

So he says, “Number fifty-five, Rue Plumet,” just as he had that fateless evening when Javert was supposed to wrench away his freedom.

 

“Then this truly is not my eternal torment,” Javert responds.

 

Valjean relaxes somewhat at the sight of the inspector’s shoulders gone lax, but Javert is not finished.

 

“I have not died,” he says on a wry whisper, “and you are not the Demon, himself, plotting my tortures, are you, Jean Valjean?”

 

So many days of silence make all the more this question smart, and Valjean staggers back a half-awkward step, struck as if by the lash, itself.

 

Sighing, Javert says, “I do not have the strength for more games,” and when he stares at Valjean, the ferocious glimmer in his eyes has dulled. Now they look as if to plead.

 

“Let us speak plainly of our atrocities.”

 

“Atrocities?” Valjean manages to say. His throat has gone to sand, his words conveyed on rasps.

 

“I said no games,” Javert iterates, angrier, though his composure is impeccable. “You took from me my own death, I want to know why.”

 

Valjean could laugh at that, or perhaps weep. He has been wracking his mind for the very same answer, still no closer to its discovery than the first night he held Javert’s limp body in his arms, laid him in this bed, and prayed for the Lord to stay his warring conscience and Javert’s feeble pulse. A lifetime ago, Valjean had considered a similar course of reprieve in Toulon, but he was saved. And now Javert is saved.

 

“Why,” this saved man demands of the other.

 

Despite the knot in his chest, Valjean’s reply lacks the necessary conviction, but, regardless, he continues, if only for the sake of having something to say.

 

“It was not right,” he answers, wincing as Javert gives a great bark of feral laughter.

 

“A bold statement on your behalf. What exactly do you know of wrong and right, Jean Valjean?”

 

The words escape before Valjean has enough sense to register them at all -

 

“Far more than you credit me, Inspector.”

 

\- and Javert’s mouth curls upward in a challenging slant, but before either man can consider a rebuke, a throat clears itself timidly from the doorway, suspending the moment for another time.

 

Relief floods Valjean’s stammering pulse, and he turns to see Toussaint holding a tray with a small array of tea things as per his request, which he had quite forgotten.

 

“Th-there is some medic-cine if you require it,” she whispers as Valjean takes the tray. True to her word, along with the pot of tea and two empty cups, a third contains a precise measure of laudanum, enough, Valjean assumes, to incapacitate Javert for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening. He resolves it as a last resort.

 

Thanking Toussaint who dismisses herself once more, Valjean turns back to Javert and boldly takes the chair beside the bed, balancing the tray on his knees, and pouring the two of them brimming cups without word or glance in the inspector’s direction.

 

“You should have left me,” Javert says.

 

Valjean almost reaches for the laudanum.

 

“It would have been easier.”

 

“You are wrong.”

 

Javert sighs again, a long, low breath, but it is punctuated by a stuttered inhale and a small gasp, and Valjean’s head snaps up to see the unmistakable creases of pain marring the corners of Javert’s eyes, his mouth.

 

“And you are hurt,” Valjean says. “I intend to see you better.”

 

“Such grand delusions you have,” Javert mutters. “But I see your housekeeper is not entirely dull.”

 

He indicates the laudanum, and Valjean’s stomach lurches.

 

“Give me the drugs,” Javert says. “I have no use for this waking world. Come then, and let me alone. Or will you deny me even that mercy?”

 

At Valjean’s hesitation, Javert rolls his eyes, reaches over, procures his cup and the one of laudanum, and before Valjean can stop him, tips the dark liquid into his tea. From it he takes a long draught, then wordlessly returns both cups to the tray, all without ever looking at Valjean.

 

“There,” he says, “now you have not left any excuse to hound me further.”

 

“We cannot forever ignore this,” Valjean murmurs, almost too low to hear, but Javert does.

 

“We? What of this _we_?” He scoffs, though his words grapple for vitriol as the laudanum takes effect. “In this, there is only you.”

 

Valjean does not understand, but knowing it pointless to press the issue, he there finds relief. His response, then, is to set the tray atop the bedside table, stand, and set about situating Javert more comfortably.

 

“I can… can quite manage,” Javert says. “Does not your daughter need you? Go to her. Leave me…”

 

And then, as though of a dream or fancy or something equal parts impossibly imagined -

 

“Please.”

 

His mentioning Cosette already caused Valjean to still, but this stymies him altogether, and he recoils from Javert as though singed. There are no visible blisters to mark the brand, however, only the strangest of shocks stinging his unsettled nerves.

 

Wordlessly, he retreats, watching Javert’s eyes watch him back until they succumb to the drug’s stupor, watching his chin sink to his chest, watching his chest rise and fall in soothed rhythms, until no more can he observe, compelled almost to flee the cottage and never look back.

 

He indulges no such thing, taking his leave as quietly as possible.

 

Outside, the trumpet vine droops in the unrelenting sun, and he is careful not to crush its blooms underfoot as he seeks sanctuary in the villa with Toussaint.

 

“Shall I s-sit with him, Monsieur?” She asks when he finds her in the _salon_ with her own tea.

 

Collapsing into the chair opposite her’s, he says, “Not just yet. He will be asleep for some time.”

 

Toussaint hums as she sups her tea, but her loosening posture does not go unnoticed. Valjean has asked much of her, too much, and Javert is certain to present more difficulty now that he will no longer simply be lying there in bed - a greater risk, as well, with the possibility of him exposing his treacheries to poor, unwitting Toussaint. Tonight will have to be her last, and from there Valjean must tend to the inspector.

 

“I take it you did not have your tea?” Toussaint wonders aloud as Valjean groans.

 

“I shall make some more,” she says, standing and setting her cup aside. “With sugar and milk, I think.”

 

Her special remedy, when even she cannot abide Valjean’s pious self-abnegation. If only it worked and could solve his every woe, but this is not her burden and is certainly not her responsibility. For in this, there is only him.

 

_

 

Javert’s throat scalds as he wrenches his finger from his mouth and heaves over the side of the bed, acid and soggy chunks of half digested food splattering through his teeth. Swallowing the finger again, he gags, and lurches against the mattress, his stomach expelling every last drop it can. His ribs scream from the pressure, and his vision vaults to the left and right with his swimming head, but he boldly weathers the suffering even as tears drip into the mess on the wood grain below.

 

Satisfied, he subsides into the pillows, pulling great breaths from the exertion, remaining so for some precious minutes until finally he can reach for the bedside table and retrieve Valjean’s forgotten cup of tea to drown the taste of bile. Swallowing much too fast, he manages the cup back onto the tray before devolving into a bout of coughing that makes his ribs quite shriek with hot splinters, and more time is lost as he wills himself not to cry out, to lie and wait until he can move again without the lances of agony. Little will it matter in the end, but he cannot hope to meet that end if his chest disintegrates. He must be careful, all of this must be so very careful.

 

Carefully, then, he sits up, and pulls the covers to himself. There are many despite the season, two woolen quilts and, yes - blessed be - a thin sheet which he extricates from the others. It has been doubled to accommodate the small bed, and he unfolds it to its full size revealing an off-cream expanse Valjean no doubt uses for his own bedchamber. Javert flushes angrily at the thought of the man retiring to stately and comfortable quarters every night, though it is altogether an irrelevant frustration to harbor at present. For presently, his only concern is to redouble the sheet lengthwise, and again, and again, and then twist it until he has formed in his fists an approximation of rope. It measures several decent feet and will easily accommodate any crude knot with much to spare for tying off ‘round an eave, and a gleed of pride at such fastidious ingenuity simmers in his sore breast.

 

It fizzles before its chance to grow to a conflagration, before Javert can attempt swinging his legs over the bed and stumbling for the door in search of that elusive eave. For in through the window floats the sound of voices, and Javert’s hope and resolve plummet to the floor along with his other diligence.

 

Hurriedly shoving the twisted sheet beneath the pillows, he resituates himself into the woolens and makes to assume a ruse of sleep, but surely his heart will be heard, hammering as it is, surely the stench of vomit will give him away, revealing his plan in an instant, and then Valjean will administer the drugs and see to it he remains docile for however long he desires to torment.

 

So engrossed in these thoughts, so _sure_ of them, Javert does not realize his tormentor has re-entered the room until rough knuckles skim his forehead, trailing down alongside his temple to his cheek, and further against his neck where they still at his tremoring pulse. Javert holds his breath.

 

“Mercy…” Valjean whispers, and the hand retreats, followed by footsteps rounding the bed, and Javert knows he has discovered the mess.

 

Valjean offers no further exclamations, but sighs heavily as he departs the room again, no doubt in search of some rags to wipe the floor. Sure enough, within the minute, he returns. Javert has not moved a muscle, though the warm air in unfortunate combination with the heavy quilts boils him where he lies, but he stills himself to marble when Valjean crouches and sets to cleaning. He makes a last trip when the task is complete, and Javert half hopes the initial visit was a formality, but the footsteps do not cease on the cobblestone, and Valjean’s presence again looms about the room.

 

He sets something on the bedside table, jostling the forgotten tea tray aside with a chorus of clatters. Next proceeds the sound of dripping, dribbling water, and a cool cloth touches to his flushed face, coaxing an inaudible sigh of relief. The hand administering the cloth halts but for a brief second before resuming, wiping down the heat and sweat from Javert’s face and neck between his collarbones where his nightshirt (Valjean’s, he knows, for it is too big) has slipped down somewhat. Time falters on this moment so it elapses in an age to Javert in which he forces himself to concentrate on the uneasy, coiled shape protruding from his pillow, the _sharp sharp_ of his chest and shoulder, _anything_ to ignore the relief his enemy’s hand administers.

 

At last, it is done, and Javert thinks he will be left alone now, having convinced Valjean he is truly asleep despite the issue of the laudanum, but to his dismay, the presence of that vindictively benevolent man remains, and indeed Javert even hears the opening of a book and the creak of the chair as Valjean dares to sit back and _read_.

 

The fury this incites is unparalleled. The sheer _audacity_ of it. Here Javert lies having only just been thwarted in his greatest of plans, and there, not a meter away, reclines his enemy who has driven him to such means, as though he has no knowledge of it, as though he cares not he threw Javert to the river just as he now proffers the noose fashioned from his own bed dressings.

 

How dare he. How _dare_ he.

 

But little can one do when they must fool the other that they are sleeping. But little sleep can there be gained with the incessant flick- _flicking_ of pages, the press of summer heat from the window, the din of eyes raking from page to prone body and back again. Over and over and over…

 

“Just read aloud for heaven’s _sake_.”

 

Each sound and sensation ceases by way of punctuating Javert’s desperate command, and it takes a great deal for Valjean to reply.

 

“You are -“

 

He pauses to start again.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Javert does not answer, but the pressure about the room decreases markedly as he turns on his side, putting his back to Valjean and his face to where, minutes prior, he had thought himself well and free enough to perform his execution. There is a residual smell, which burns fierce in his nose, but he remains.

 

Valjean begins, hushed but lacking monotony so the words carry devastating already.

 

“The many men, so beautiful,” he says, “And they all dead did lie. And a thousand thousand slimy things lived on, and so did I.”

 

He stalls a spell, though not to turn the page. Eyes burn the nape of Javert's neck, and he shivers.

 

“I looked upon the rotting sea," Valjean continues eventually, "and drew my eyes away. I looked upon the rotting deck, and there the dead men lay…”

 

Together they draw quaking breaths, but Javert’s is expelled sans the reason of rhyme.

 

“I look'd to heaven, and tried to pray,” Valjean murmurs. “But or ever a prayer had gush’t…

 

“A wicked whisper came,” he says, “and made my heart as dry as dust.”

 

Javert hears not the rest of the poem beyond this, though he cries as one might had they devoured the piece entire, and if Valjean notices, he can believe this the reason. He can believe anything he likes of Javert, after all. In the end, it will not matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey uhhhhh, I'm giving yall express permission to Literally come to my house and kick my ass. Four and a half fucking months for an update what the Actual Fuck. I have no excuse for taking so long, my brain is literally just that shit at trying to Make Words Happen, and this is probably way off the mark from the first chapter, so idek. would love to know if it works, I miss yall in my inbox, and I hope this was somewhat worth the wait for whoever was anticipating an update lmao

**Author's Note:**

> I thrive on comments, pleaaaase don't hesitate to tell me what you thought/liked so far (especially because I am not sure how I feel about this style, I haven't written just-bordering-on-painfully-purple in a while and I'm really nervous posting this. Blease my dudes I live off constructive criticism <3)


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